


And So He Guards You

by Nolfalvrel



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Anal Sex, Angel!Connor, Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Connor tries his best but knows it will always end up this way lol, Demon!Hank, Hank Big, Hints of dubcon, M/M, Nipple Play, Of a sorts, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Top Hank Anderson, but both completely consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22080508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nolfalvrel/pseuds/Nolfalvrel
Summary: Written for the DBH & Multifandom Secret Santa 2019 as a gift for ConnorssockDemon!Hank runs into Angel!Connor while hunting the same monster. Some delicious times ensue.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor, Upgraded Connor | RK900 & Gavin Reed
Comments: 12
Kudos: 194
Collections: DBH & Multifandom Secret Santa 2019





	And So He Guards You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [connorssock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/connorssock/gifts).



> Welcome all! Connorssock welcome most of all :-) I hope you all enjoy this as much as I did writing it

Hank revels in all that is Connor.

His wings loom wide and white as he spreads them over the monster hunter, face set in a snarl that should be hideous, but because Connor is so damn pretty, it just runs an ardour through Hank’s veins, pooling down south in a roiling lava tempest. Skin pale and smooth and angular, body lithe and dynamic in every motion. Like he’d been carved from marble by Kamski himself, and kissed to life by the Angels he emulates. The sparkles of freckles and moles over his skin are the perfect blemishes.

Typically, Connor is not capable of a wide variety of emotions. Hank has not been able to make himself overtly familiar with the Guardian, the other bound as he is to his brother, but Connor is usually neutral faced yet polite. His brother maintains an austere coldness equivalent to a frozen mountain peak.

Said brother, Richard, is trying desperately not to crumple to the floor, head oozing red like a cracked can of paint, a shaking hand keeping his torso upright as he crouches. He’s so strikingly like Connor, Hank thinks, as he stares at both of them, nonplussed. 

Dead snakes scatter about the torch-lit Vault, burned and headless. Blood makes constellations on the walls and ceilings. The signs of a struggle. The two brothers are at the centre of the windowless, stuffy stone room.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Hank asks, his own black wings lowering in surprise and lessened alarm. 

Hank is too slow on the uptake. The daemons behind him wriggle around his bulk in the doorway and burst through eagerly, chittering and howling and screeching, teeth working in vicious excitement as they ready to shred skin. The mass of them swallow Connor, those pearlescent feathers barely peeking through the hoard. 

“NO!” Richard screams, the sound tortured.

The split-second of stupor is too long for Hank to snap out of, and by the time he lunges forward to tear the mad beasts from the Guardian, Connor has sustained quite a bit of damage. There are puncture marks drawing blue blood from his neck. For each one of his pretty moles, there is a matching scratch. Tears through his wings turn them into cloudy skies. He’s fighting valiantly though, managing to clear himself space to maneuver. Connor rips each of them off as they come, slicing his right wing through one, indulging his ‘sixth sense’ to send three gremlins flying backward, cracking against the wall. 

Then Hank is in the middle of the daemons, roaring and spitting, tearing away two by their spines, the vertebrae ripping straight through the beasts’ skin. As they flake away to dust he’s already crushing the skull of another with his fingers and burning yet another, and once Connor is within reach he yanks the Guardian towards him and behind his massive frame. His own tar skin wings shield Connor as he pulls them backward, and he snarls at the daemons as they regroup in frenzy around him.

“Fuck off!” Hank roars, talons flashing.

When they recognize that they are trying to attack their master the beasts hesitate and dither in place, clicking noisily. Their tails writhe in the air as serpents. 

Electricity crackles through Hank, makes his hair lift and frizz around his horns with the energy as he screams again. “I said FUCK OFF!” Lightning lashes at them. 

The unlucky weaker ones sink to the earth in ashes. The things comprehend. In a moment, they squeal away. 

Growling, Hank turns, folding his wings to see Connor rubbing his bloody nose against his wrist. There is a subtle gradient to the other’s black claws, feathers slowly turning to grey as they reach the nailbeds. Unlike Hank, whose forearms look like they have been dipped in pitch. Hank’s skin slowly fades to normal as he lets his guard fall away. Though not entirely.

Connor is, after all, still technically the enemy.

“What are you doing here?” Hank asks again, stepping into Connor’s space. The other stiffens and straightens taller for a moment. Trying to match Hank’s impossible height, before flitting away suddenly. 

Back to Richard. 

“Nines!” Connor has his brother’s cheeks between his hands. His wings fold away, hands pale and smooth. “Nines, stay with me, alright?”

“What are you doing here?” Hank follows Connor, but keeps a distance. The Guardian has a tendency to get protective. He changes gears. “What the Hell happened?”

Connor ignores him, licking over Richard’s wounds. It should be disgusting. But Connor licks as an attentive mother cat to her kitten. Hank knows his tongue is rough as one too. He’s felt it, remembers forcing his fingers against it, and seeing it just makes him more aroused than before. 

Gripping Richard’s shoulders, Connor gives his brother a shake when he lists backward. “Stay with me Nines. It’s going to be okay, alright?”

Richard disobeys. Grey eyes rolling back in his head. Connor shakes him desperately, before uttering a quiet, strained, “Shit.” 

Tired of being ignored, Hank steps forward and places a massive hand over Connor’s brown hair, curling still clawed fingers menacingly. “Last chance, Connor. Give me some answers.”

The Guardian looks up at him then. “We needed a cure.”

“He was bitten?” Hank scours Richard’s black clothes, as if he could pinpoint the mark. He hadn’t smelled—

“No. it’s for a job, a little girl in the village who has not yet fully turned,” Connor clarifies, laying Richard gently down. He moves his head from under Hank’s hand, and Hank lets him go. He begins to pull at his brother’s vest. A raking wound is exposed as Connor pulls the leather apart and the dark, sticky shirt beneath. “We didn’t have the ingredients for wolfsbane, and this Vault belongs to a Gorgon. Nines received this from the monster,” Hank heart twists a little at the ‘m’ term, “When we woke it taking the Mirror.”

A Gorgon’s Mirror. Revealing the true self of the looker. An unorthodox cure for a turning, but one of the speediest and most diverse. The exceptions to its magic were rare, such as a Vampire bite or Djinn Trap.

Or a Guardian Spell. 

“Is he going to live?” There’s an unspoken question Hank wrestles back. _Do you want him to?_.

“It’s highly unlikely a Gorgon’s magic can overcome mine,” Connor answers, before shuffling over Richard’s body and dipping to slowly work his tongue over the chest wound. It begins to seal itself like the others did, albeit a lot slower. Flesh oozing together. Connor’s body relaxes, clearly confident his attempts to heal will work. Richard is out of the danger zone.

“I killed the Gorgon before we cut off the head,” Connor continues. Hank gives Connor a thoughtful look, understanding now about the snakes, surveying the room. “I… had to. Nines was incapacitated. It was killing him. It convinced him to open his eyes with it’s song. So I spoke ‘Death’ at it.” At the mention of the curse, the torches flicker, and Hank twitches.

“So you killed it, and the head became a Hydra.” Connor nods.

“Rationally, I figured it would be better for us to fight a Hydra, than to lose Nines to petrification. After we eliminated the Hydra however, you appeared with your hoard.”

Hank winces, turning from the scattered serpents back to Connor. “Shit, guess that didn’t help. I wanted them in a frenzy before taking on this bitch. Otherwise I never would have unleashed them on you like that.”

“I understand. Although if you _had_ intentionally released them it wouldn’t have been too difficult to dispose of them, I appreciate that attacking us wasn’t your intention.”

Connor smiles his stiff lopsided half smile. Tone in that sterile happy-politeness Connor feeds Hank at most encounters.

“Hey,” Hank snaps, “There’s no way you would have managed a hoard after enduring a Hydra. Especially my hoard.”

“It’s incorrect to say your hoard, Hank. All hoards are summoned from the same set of daemons.” Connor looks up at him, still leaning over Richard’s body, his own trim chest hovering over one of Richard’s plush pectorals, which beads with a perfect pink tip. Large eyes, normally sweet doe brown, are a bright, shiny amber, crossing into red.

Hank squats then, pushing his face into Connor’s with a growl. “My. _Hoard_. Stronger Demons draw better stock to the surface.”

“While Demons may draw more powerful daemons, I’m not sure the same can be said for Demons trapped as Familiars.” 

Hank can’t help but guffaw. “Y’know, if I asked Gavin, he would break Richard’s seal and bind you to me instead. How powerful do you think a Guardian bound to a Demon would end up being?” His lips are trespassing into the space between them, edging towards something intimate with Connor’s own so close. He knows by the way the Guardian had relaxed, that Richard will be okay. The brother won’t be a barrier to what Hank wants now.

“I doubt Witch Reed would ever intentionally deal with having me around, especially sans Nines,” Connor counters, sitting up more to bring his own face closer to Hank.

The clothing of the Guardian is not necessarily sexy, but it is sensual. A white bustier topped with a garland of twisting yellow metal that rests below the collarbone, and pants that billow and flow, folded over a slit along the hip to ankle in each leg, letting the limb pop out on occasion. Like now, where Connor’s legs almost drape behind him. Feet laced in linen that loops all the way back up to mid-thigh. It’s such contrast to Hank’s own garments, bare, barrel chest covered by a Witch’s tattoo and black pants.

They know the basics of each other’s stories. Gavin, a Witch who got lucky, pulled Hank from the Underworld and bound him until death or release to serve, essentially bottling a storm. Leashing Hank and all his limitless power. Not taming him, but forcing him into obedience. 

Richard, ‘Nines’ to Connor for a secret he has yet to tell, a brother who couldn’t let his twin die, so he bound their souls together to tether Connor to the earth until Richard was forced to pass beyond it. 

Then, if Connor was not yet bound to somebody living, Connor would become a ghost. Then a malevolence to be exorcised.

And then a Demon.

“Then I’ll bind you myself.” Hank says it like a statement. But Connor knows it’s an offer.

They’ve been at this dance for a long time. Running into each other on travels. Richard on a desperate quest to purge the world in his families’ name, and somehow find a cure for the fate he’d inflicted upon his brother. Hank sent off by Gavin to conquer the bigger, harder Vaults, whether it be a cave or pond or tomb such as this one. Ordered to slay his brethren monsters within. All for a special creature treasure. Like the Gorgon’s Mirror. Connor’s breath is sweet upon Hank’s face, and his chest is starting to heave faster.

 _What do you owe him?_ Hank’s eyes ask, as their noses touch. _Do you know what_ he _owes_ you?

“You can’t,” Connor denies him, like every time before. “Not while Nines is living.” He turns to observe his brother. “He’s going to live, Hank.”

Hank pulls Connor from his twin then, fast enough that Connor cannot stop him. “He’s also going to sleep, Connor.” He lays the Guardian across his own legs, watch creamy skin appear and disappear under the white cloth. “He doesn’t need your attention right now.”

Then Hank kisses Connor, full and roughly with dexterity of tongue, devouring the others mouth ferociously. Connor tries to push back. His hands come down on Hank’s shoulders and squeeze flesh, and his chest arches into the broad chest of the other as he tries to find leverage against the arms boxing his waist in. Hank pulls him closer, as though trying to pull Connor right through his skin. His tongue explores Connor, forces his tongue down, then to the side, then trapping it to suckle on like a tit.

Connor’s movements become pleas for breath, trying to dodge Hank, neck trying to pull away, but Hank lets Connor’s body form a bow over his arms as he chases after the other’s lips and continues to consume. No matter how powerful Connor is, Hank has always been stronger.

Or Connor has really never cared so much about losing. When Connor begins to writhe almost painfully, Hank lets him up for air, although he doesn’t stop. He kisses along Connor’s jaw, feeling him heave against him, licking thickly at his ear before taking it between fanged teeth. Connor shudders and issues a whine, pulling at Hank’s arms. He’s trapped. 

Hank ducks under Connor’s ear and leaves rapid nips along his neck until he brushes right against the man’s pulse, latching on. Connor keens, thumping a hand against Hank’s thick chest. Hank’s teeth grip skin and tug, then suck. He laves his tongue wetly, lick, lick, lick.

Like a dog.

When he’s finished making the first mark, Connor is trembling. He hasn’t been able to maneuver much with Hank holding him in place so firmly, and beneath those wispy trousers, he’s tenting. 

Hank crushes him against his chest again, every inch of Connor’s skin on his own a molten brand. He grips at Connor’s neck, this time on the left side, just below the jugular, in a wider, harsher bite. He forces a mark upon the skin, whipping it into an angry purple with his appendage. Then he devours in a dance back to the other side, and Connor is keening as Hank lowers him to the floor, towering over him.

He doesn’t leave that supple neck with a space untouched. He gives Connor a tower of bites, feeling the Guardian buck below him but holding the other’s hips down with his own thighs, a tease of intimacy between their cocks when a more powerful surge from Connor brings them together. 

Connor is resisting Hank because Hank is a terrifying monsoon. Hank enjoys the fight, thrilled at the test of his strength. His wings, still unsheathed, spread wide, and Connor stares at them with half-lidded eyes. His hands are pinned by Hank’s massive mitts.

Hank forces Connor’s mouth open, reveling that he still encounters a struggle. Then he pulls the others’ wrists up, drawing him taut. Clamping them in place with a single hand. Hank mouths at Connor’s collarbone, free hand trying to figure out the bustier, until he brings both hands to the top and yanks, ripping. The Guardian jerks, hands immediately trying to shove Hank off and salvage the shirt.

“Hank, no! Stop, you can’t—”

The response is Hank’s ferocious clamp round Connor’s wrists, stilling them, and he gives Connor a hard look. “Stop it.” He pulls the limbs in a cross back over the other’s head, and earns a wet, blushing expression. 

Then Connor’s back curves and arches as Hank pushes aide a fold of cloth to expose a nipple he firmly rolls between his teeth. Hank pulls the nipple back into his mouth, suctioning, letting his teeth rest around it before biting again. It swells, and he bites the areola into his mouth too for a suckle. He sucks once, twice, then opens his mouth to let hot breath gust over the abused peak. Connor sobs, writhing, as Hank swirls his tongue over it again and again, watching the man’s head jerk back and then forward desperately. 

Hank squeezes Connor’s chest to force more of it into his mouth, nursing brutally. 

Every part of him coils towards Hank. Every part of him fights to get away.

“Hannnnkkk…,” Connor’s voice is a spur, and Hank begins to brusquely massage his swollen, red chest with his ring fingers, watching the young man undulate like a wave. 

And again, Hank descends.

There’s sweat making a pool in the dip of Hank’s spine already. He relishes in Connor’s suede soft flesh, the way he gets to pull his limbs around like molding putty. Heavy, resistant, deliciously noisy putty, but malleable all the same. He basically chews the left breast, even when Connor begins to practically cry with arousal. Hank gives him a hundred and ten percent and then more.

Flipping Connor onto his stomach, Hank pulls his thighs apart, letting his meaty fists rest just under the upper thighs in tense exhilaration. He strokes up and down.

“Hank, fuck, you can’t k-keep teasing me…,” Connor raises himself, barely, onto his elbows, stomach still resting against the dusty stone floor. The kiss swollen, vulnerable look he casts Hank pushes a spike of voracious want, a curl of unkempt desire, straight to his cock. Those half lidded brown eyes all but grip Hank’s pulsing member. He can imagine long thin fingers gently stroking him to fullness. 

He destroys the other article of decency left to Connor.

“Just hold on, darling. I got something for you.” Hank winks. 

When he rips the pants above the pert, tensed globes of Connor’s ass, Hank immediately dives for the prize. The pink pucker is a magnet for his tongue, and he excavates without preparation. He slobbers between Connor’s cheeks, as Connor squeals. His tongue is thick and long, most certainly longer than a typical man’s. It curls and breaches Connor impossibly. 

Hank shakes his head rapidly as a wet dog. Connor flutters around him, foot kicking out. He squeezes at Connor’s ass, tightly, testing the way in which his trunk thick fingers sink into the plush flesh. 

When he releases, there are marks, and he’s rewarded with a jello-like bounce when Connor shudders, and he can’t help but dig his fingers back in. Over and over, making a meal of Connor’s hole, burrowing inside. 

Hank’s sinful reward is the gushing of slick as it begins to pool out of Connor. Guardians, who did not need to eat, and could go without sleep, apparently still needed sex. So much so that such a sinful adaptation was born. Hank grins, still feasting. Connor moans, prolonged, when Hank’s tongue begins to pulse at the ridge of his prostate. Merciless. 

Then, like something has snapped, Connor jerks, looking back over his shoulder.

“Hank, Hank, stop, I’m going to…I’m going to come!” 

That’s the entire point. 

Hearing the begging just adds another spark to his already ravenous libido. Hank loves to drive Connor there and beyond. Shoving him over the edge and then bending him over further still. Fingers join his tongue’s exploration. They barely fit, with how incredibly tight Connor is and how massive Hank’s fingers are. Connor’s hips buck from the ground and come back down.

At this point, Hank’s cock is a steel pipe, and he has to squeeze himself for some kind of reprieve, listening to Connor squeal. 

There’s slick gushing everywhere. Connor may as well be a fountain. Hank smirks, watching it slip and pool between Connor’s sack. Unlike a regular human, Connor ‘s organs refrain from that ugly red, twisted tone during arousal—unless Hank decides to latch onto them. Instead, they remain a pleasant, flushed pink, hairless and smooth, and oh so sensitive. Connor jerks as he grazes a palm over his balls.

“Fuck, Hank,” Connor pants. Catching his breath, and catching up. “Did you not want me to do anything for you…?”

The sweet idea of ramming pert pink lips full of his rock hard dick has Hank gritting his teeth and drawing in some deep breaths of his own. He’s a Demon, so oral sex has a particular pleasure in that Connor can gnaw all he wants and let his teeth slip, and the iron hide of Hank’s skin will keep it from being unpleasant. And usually, during their fleeting, rough sex, Connor returns all his aggression while sucking cock, grating his teeth and twisting. 

That is, if Connor’s not already choking on Hank, mouth puffy with saliva as it’s drilled. 

It’s an interruption, though. If Hank thinks about this moment, he really just wants to get to the basics. He shakes his head at Connor, who is tense and boneless all at once, and dripping with fluids. 

“Just let yourself out, baby,” He can’t help the terms. Partly, it’s to be condescending. Connor isn’t really the affectionate type, even though he’s beyond empathetic.

The more times they meet like this, through random, hurried, nonsensical, dangerous trysts, the more Hank wants to mean them. 

Connor’s neck curves beautifully when he has to look backward at Hank. His chin juts out in strong lines, and the sleek bow of his jugular has Hank sucking on his tongue to keep from latching back on. If he didn’t love being able to see Connor’s face so much and play with his fleshy pecs, behind would be Hank’s favourite position to mount the Guardian.

It’s certainly what he does now.

The emergence of those ivory wings is a slip of wind indistinguishable from breath, and Hank, like in all things, buries his fingers into them roughly. He’s careful not to yank any feathers loose, but Connor is constantly shedding them without his help. Thanks to the exertion, they’re slightly damp, even having been stored.

Hank pulls them back, as with Connor’s neck, just to stare into those rich, deep brown pools, as he drapes himself entirely over the smaller body. He presses a soft, tap of a kiss to Connor’s sweaty brow.

Then he rams home, and takes off. Connor’s eyes roll back beneath him, and Hank can only lock him in place like this for so long while try to set a vicious pace. 

He lets go of Connor’s neck to pull his hips up, forcing Connors ass higher to allow for more brutality. Hank thrums with energy, pistoning in and out, in and out. Inandoutinandoutinandout.

Rougher. Harder. Faster. He ruts, and lets out chuffing growls as he slaps against Connor on every in. Speared, Connor wails. His hands are curled under him in a strange docility that only Hank can evoke. 

He loves how the Guardian doesn’t care right now that Richard could wake up and see them entwined like this. 

Or maybe Connor’s just that confident Richard will stay sleeping. How he can sleep through this, Hank knows, is a miracle. He can’t help but viciously want the brother to wake up, rouse himself, and see what is happening. Witness his twin screaming, almost for mercy, as Hank pounds him. 

Understand who it is that Connor really belongs to.

Connor’s wings buffet them until Hank uses his own to close them down, and every so often when Hank grinds particularly hard, the white feathers fling free of the black skin and beat the air in lost control. His knees scratch the earth and he bears over Connor, possessive, and he lets a hand slap at the untarnished skin of Connor’s hip.

He’s rewarded with a gush of fluid and a shriek from Connor, so he does it again. Like rousing a horse into a faster gallop, he sets off his slaps in the same pace as the flurry of his thighs. 

“Hank, you’re just so…big…every time…”

“Fuck Connor, fuck, fuck, fuck…” His breath feels sticky and burns, There’s a whisper in his lungs that might be pain from overstimulation, even though he hasn’t come yet. He’s leaking precome like crazy. All but wetting the ocean when he compares it to the river Connor’s birthing. Everything is so hot and tight and shit, Connor’s hole is so fucking small, it’s like forcing himself through a needle eye. His knees lock and he squeezes Connor to the ground, gaining leverage to buck into Connor with new frenzy. 

He feels like he’s about to burst. It feels like he’s swallowed a million stars, and all of them have pooled in his groin. Connor squirms, crushed beneath him, and he grips Connor’s waist and drives himself to a speed that would surely shatter the pelvis of a mortal.

“C’mon baby, c’mon!” Hank coaxes, and Connor gives a squeak at every slam of Hank’s cock against his prostate, now being jackhammered. “I want you to come like this. Just like this.”

Connor vibrates and lets one of those desperate whines out. ”I… Hank, I don’t…”

“You’ve done this before you know you can, just break for me Connor,” Hank growls. Every part of him is vibrating. His lungs barely fill before he’s shoving himself back into Connor, into the space that’s never big enough for him. He feels that ridge of nerves within the tight, pulsating muscle that continues to try and force him out, and with every thrust, beings to gore it. 

“Neh, hahh, Hank, _Hank_.” Hank folds over Connor, looping himself around the Guardian, feeling Connor’s hands come up to grip his forearms. Hank’s snapping forward and back vigorously, determined, but also losing control, missing the beat to a chaotic, hurried rhythm.

And then he plunges twice more and Connor’s hands curl and nails grow black and he screams Hank’s name, digging into the thick, muscled arms that keep him tethered. He spasms around Hank, twisting at the grazes over his sensitive prostate, hole almost suctioning in the large cock inside him.

Then Hank is coming too. Violently. Gripping Connor, biting into a yet marked shoulder, snarling like an animal.

Like a monster.

The bite is hard enough to draw blood, Connor shouting and trying to pull away. But he can never win against such power. He can never escape Hank.

Hank lets Connor’s pulsing hole milk him, enjoy the sensation of hot, soft warmth, hating the nasty feeling of thick, drying substances over his thighs and beard. He wants nothing more than to sleep, uninterested in another round when Connor feels perfect in his arms like this. 

“You were very rough today…,” Connor comments eventually, arms still tangled with the Demon’s, albeit not as stiffly “…Is it your time of—”

“No,” Hank snaps, sleepy and uncomfortable with the conversation. Even though it’s Connor. 

“Then why…”

“I just haven’t—Gavin hasn’t been letting me—I haven’t really seen you lately.” Hank fumbles, frustrated, tone daring Connor to ask another question, pursue it further. He knows the Guardian is smart enough to read between the disgruntled lines. The other man is silent. Instead, Connor lays his head against Hank’s bicep. 

He’s still draped over Connor like an enormous, demonic blanket. There are feathers loosened everywhere, and he has to blow one out of his face as he shifts and they tumble from his hair. ”Fuck, you’re messy….”

“My wings have a tendency to shed more during bouts of intense activity,” Connor explains as though they don’t go over this every time. 

“It seems so inefficient. I don’t know why it’s always like we’ve murdered a family of pillows.”

Silence again, and Hank grins lazily when he peers down and sees Connor pouting, nose imperceptibly scrunched.

Fucking adorable. 

There’s a foreign groan, and both of them snap stiff to watch Richard shift, clenching his side and curling.

“The pain must be coming back,” Connor remarks. His voice is troubled in that brotherly way that still manages to make Hank jealous. There’s an anesthetic quality to the Guardian’s saliva, paired nicely with the healing abilities. It has the tendency to wear down quickly for large injuries. 

“Surprised he slept so long. You were loud. Again.”

“Healing works best during rest.”

Hank chortles, Connor shaking with his motions. ”You used ‘Sleep’ on him?”

“It was to his benefit.” That pulls another deep belly laugh from Hank. It’s nice to know he’s not the only one who gets irrationally horny around the other.

Connor’s cheek is cool as it lays against Hank’s arm. “We should get up soon?”

“Hmm…”

“Hank.”

“Zzz…”

“ _Hank_.”

“Five more minutes,” Hank mumbles against the Guardian’s ear, deep and rough with sleep. Connor tilts away from Hank’s hot breath but gives himself away by clenching.

“Hank…”

“I just want to hold you, like this.” That has Connor stilling again. It’s uncomfortable. They’re both uncomfortable on the dirty, rough floor, covered in saliva and slick and semen. But Hank would never trade here, cocooned around Connor, for anywhere else.

Gavin will call on him soon, check in on his success. He won’t answer for as long as possible, until the brand on his chest begins to burn like it’s been lit for the first time.

Richard will come to, and Connor will have magicked himself another set of clothes, or fixed that tattered ones that still hang off him, and Hank will have to say goodbye for the next six or however many months it is until fate ropes them back together.

Fate works too slow. So for now, he’ll enjoy this moment, languishing in being the very centre of Connor’s world.

Reveling in his Guardian.

**Author's Note:**

> Love and appreciate any feedback <3


End file.
